


thine evening ardor

by lowfidelity



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nothing too serious!, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, fluff and comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 05:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowfidelity/pseuds/lowfidelity
Summary: Urianger takes the bottle by the neck and gulps down the drink. It’s like an old childhood friend — familiar, yet with novel differences. It stokes a warm fire in the pit of his belly. Now that he thinks about it, alcohol truly is befitting of Thancred in this light.





	thine evening ardor

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first FFXIV fic! i'm not too familiar with the brand of shakespearean urianger uses, nor with writing in thancred's voice for that matter. i mostly wrote this for fun and for practice. please beware of shadowbringers (5.0) spoilers for the game and i hope you enjoy it.

“I trust thou hath put her to sleep. The moon hangeth too high above us for her to hearken to its whims.”

“She’s fourteen, not four. And if I of all people were to impose upon her a curfew! From then on, call me  _ Unforgiven Hypocrisy _ .”

Thancred almost triumphantly collapses into the sofa, its foam cushions giving way to the heaviness of his exhaustion. In the face of his friend’s melodrama, Urianger doesn’t do so much as flinch. He simply turns the page of his tome at a pace to match his infamous work ethic. No, not even their distance over the years could erase what he could only describe as charted Waters. 

For he knows Thancred well. The man’ll adjust his posture to attempt to get comfortable, then find over the course of the next two to three minutes that there’s no room for comfort. Then he’ll stand and start chatting, pacing as he goes, because Twelve forbid he relax for more than a brief recess. Eventually, he’ll have a single ale and fall asleep on the couch. Or pretend to fall asleep, hoping that his friend will leave him to brood in peace, to which Urianger will respond with a compliant (and, when he’s in the mood, tongue-in-cheek) exit. 

At the very least, this was Urianger’s prediction. But he found that even the stars he had so meticulously charted could not align in favor of his mind’s eye tonight. For this time when Thancred took his place next to him, he did not stir. 

_ Their disdain was not reserved for long-standing enemies such as the Voeburtites alone. Even their allies, the Humes, were _

He pulls his eyes away from the book. 

“Doth thou think naught of her well-being? ‘Tis not rest for safety, rather ‘tis rest for the sake of rest. I supposeth thou wouldst not know of the value such rest holdeth…”

“If you keep this up, she’ll be calling you Grandpa in no time.”

_ regarded as outsiders unworthy of trust. With many of Lakeland's offices of power held by elven conservatives, who desired a return to the glory days of eld, the Shadowkeeper saw an opportunity and seized it, taking control from within. _

“Perhaps our concerns art a result of thy…  _ differing _ culture to mine own. ‘Tis customary for elezen of her summers to abideth by curfew so as to ensureth her road unto adulthood. For Hyur, such may not beest a requirement. Still, if one were to consider our longer lifespan an effect of this rather than a cause, it wouldst be beneficial for thou to heed mine advice.”

Silence hangs in the air. Urianger continues his methodical scan of the texts. Thancred, despite his unusual stillness, is an indeterrable distraction. His body is unusually warm, and his posture strangely unflattering. He sees no qualms with brushing skin. He who was once a guard dog is now more reminiscent of a house pet. 

“On what endeavour hath thine evening ardor perished?” Urianger glances at the clock. “‘Tis deep into the eve for Ryne, but I believeth thou art an adult.” 

“You’re giving me some mixed messages about my sleep schedule.”

“A jester is merely a servant when he is left wanting for an audience.”

Thancred sighs out what may be a chuckle, judging by the slight amount the corners of his mouth have turned up. From the sack he’s brought home, he procures a single treasure valued to him high above the rest — a bottle of mead. Urianger notices that it is half full.

“Notice that it’s half empty. I decided to shake up the nightly routine a little… take off the edge a little earlier into the evening.” With the accompaniment of a sloshing noise, he thrusts the bottle towards Urianger. “You’ve looked far worse for wear, but you could probably use a swig or two. Haven’t seen you go through a book that thick since we were students.”

Would both of them deciding to drink at this time of the night not be cause for disaster? Or perhaps would it secure that the onus is not thrust upon him to place Thancred’s limits down for him? Then again, by partaking in a share of the alcohol, he would ensure that his companion does not drink the whole bottle, yet that outcome is dependent on the chance that he does not have a spare —

“Come on, I don’t have all night.”

“... Aye.”

Urianger takes the bottle by the neck and gulps down the drink. It’s like an old childhood friend — familiar, yet with novel differences. It stokes a warm fire in the pit of his belly. Now that he thinks about it, alcohol truly is befitting of Thancred in this light.

“Haven’t seen you drink that much since we were students, either.”

“One groweth out of it.”

“What does that say about me?”

Thancred lets out a single dry chuckle, returning to the divot he made himself in his seat. “No, no, you’re right,” he says. “I used to spend all evening out. It’d take a loch’s worth of ale to get me knocked out back then. Nowadays, one bottle and I’m flickering out… Perhaps I peaked too early.”

“Methinks thou simply organized thy priorities.” He feels the slightest shifts in his internal gravity, a rush to his head that thrums like the beat of a drum. Golden eyes drift towards the door towards Ryne’s bedroom. “There art objects more important in thine eye than the sun that riseth on each morning.” 

“When the sun constantly hangs in the sky, it’s hard to miss.”

“A jester is merely —”

“I heard you the first time.”

An open hand beckons for the return of his bottle, to which Urianger takes one last hefty drink of it, revels in the feeling of how his head relaxing from its mile-a-minute thought, and passes it back to Thancred.

There was something on his mind before he took to the alcohol, which he gladly asks again without hesitation. “What hath exhausted thou so?”

“Well, if you must ask…” Thancred sighs, then runs a hand through his hair. His neck spills over the back of the chair. “Sometimes I, like you, forget that she’s fourteen. She has a lot of questions I have no idea how to answer.”

“Ah. Surely Moren should procureth a youth’s book for thy troubles, especially one that pertaineth to mature concepts…”

“No, not those kinds of questions. Twelve above, like… Questions about life, and about her decisions, and about the right thing to do.”

“I thought thou were familiar with thy strengths, yet thou turneth a blind eye towards thy weaver’s tongue…”

“It’s different spouting a bunch of bullshite at people. I want to give her real answers. Answers that’ll actually help her, not satisfy her until she grows older and realizes how much poppycock I’m full of. Even  _ she  _ always knew better than me in that regard, somehow.” 

His silver locks brush past his eyelashes as he leans forward, coarse fingers making their mark on the bottle in his hands. The bare remaining liquid swishes about it before he puts it on the floor. While Urianger is tempted to pick it up and empty it himself, the furnace within him is still roaring. He can save it for when it needs stoking. His friend turns to him, and there’s an unusual softness about his expression. What was, for ages, hardened and stern, now rests in something vulnerable. Like a newborn pup. Like a young man. 

“You always know better than me in that regard,” Thancred says, and without an ounce of snark. “Sometimes I feel like I ought to leave the guardianship to you. Stick to being a bodyguard.”

Urianger pauses. His lip curls. Many of his compatriots, Scions and students and even Ascians alike, know of this habit of his. However, contrary to the norm, he is not mulling over his answer. He’s simply processing the words, running them over in his head.

“I knoweth as much as thou doth when it pertaineth to the heart. Mine advice hath been purely of rationality, principle, and that I hath siphoned from the wisdom of my peers. As for my peers, from observing them methinks their talents art a result of pure instinct. In your case, a paternal urge. For I watch from afar, ever the role of a distant overseer. A monarch, perhaps, or a deity. For me to beest a protector, I wouldst need to becometh ever present, loyal, dedicated.”

“I only said that in jest, you know. I’m not going to give up or anything.” A pause. “You really think me all that?”

“Yes. Whereas I… in all our summers in parallel orbits, treading intertwined paths, I hath only gained my strongest companionship in thou when I was trapped in thy presence.” There’s a sudden drop in his stomach, which he doesn’t quite understand, and so he corrects himself. “In the remainder of the Seventh Dawn. In Y’shtola, in the Leveilleurs, and even in our Warrior of Light. Whence fate allowed it, I did escape.”

“Come to think of it, I can’t remember when last I saw your bare face.” Thancred looks at him intently, the warmth radiating off his cheeks with how close the two of them are. It’s a welcome sight. “Even then, a constant presence of bad ideals… It’s like poison, if I’m constantly feeding her crap because I don’t know what to say. I’d be no better than Ran —”

“Thou art malms beyond him.”

Urianger’s sudden interruption earns the quirk of Thancred’s brow.

“Did you just… You aren’t that drunk, are you? You barely drank a quarter of it.”

“I am well enow. I simply… I disagreeth,” he says, blinking generously. “Thou art befitting of the task.”

“If you say so.” Thancred barely hides his smile behind his bangs, looking down at the floor. “I suppose it’s just a task to do it alone.”

They put a pause on that moment. Through the window, the star-filled sky shows the world keeps moving. Clouds move and stars twinkle regardless of their pace, reassuring them that they can take their time. And so they take their time resuming. Urianger weaves through a gap in Thancred’s hands to procure the last of the alcohol from him, fueling the flame, quelling his hesitance. Thancred’s hands, now empty, dive into his sack, and his forlorn sigh reveals he in fact does not have another bottle to share. A gentle nudge turns into a solid weight as he leans back into position, closer than before, shoulder to shoulder. With his sluggish reactions and heavy limbs, Urianger does not flinch. He is not future, nor past… simply present.

“Not alone,” he says. “Thou art in the company of many a helping hand.” 

“It’s not their job. I can’t volunteer anyone else to do this.”

“I volunteereth myself, then.”

Thancred turns to him in disbelief, only then realizing that their faces are far closer than they were the last time he did. Mild surprise transitions into embarrassment, then greater, more visceral surprise all the same. Of course, on a face like Thancred’s, it barely shows its hand. Urianger, however, is a master of the cards.

“You… seem too busy to join us, to be frank. Always have your nose in books.”

“I am more than capableth of doing both.” Urianger’s brow tenses at the pounding in his head, which has grown from a thrum to a drumline. “Peradventure my speech hath awakened within mine own heart resolve anew. To be dedicated. Present, mayhaps.”

Matters of the heart are matters of instinct, he recalls. Without thought, he presses his hand into Thancred’s, resting on his knee. Even with all the liquid courage within him, he still gulps as he musters the words that come next.

“Prithee, allow me to offer my hand to thee.”

There’s a beat between them again, filled with what Urianger can only describe as an umbral silence, buzzing with tension and anticipation and nerve. His hand is then sandwiched between those of Thancred, his rough palms soft and gentle against his knuckles, and the gap that had separated them is closed. Stifled. Snuffed out.

No amount of harsh sunlight, no number of summers have left their toil on his hair. They are as soft as they are thick, smothering svelte fingers in their depths. His cheeks press against Urianger’s own, hot breath and the warmth of their faces dominating the cool of the eve. Thancred’s passion is in equal measure to his hesitance, and so in his heroic resolution, Urianger pushes against him with an unbridled fervor. And his lips, unlike the rest of him, are not carved from stone, but as inviting as the Devil’s fruit itself. 

Urianger consults the stars on a nightly basis, and yet they never told him he needed this. Whatever force has compelled him to wrap the other man in his arms and partake in his graces was unbeknownst to him, perhaps dwelling at the back of his mind, pushed behind shelves of the information he so desperately sought, the futures he so urgently anticipated. What was ever present, what was in the present, had been beyond his sight.

Thancred pulls away. The starry-eyed expression on his face is so beautifully novel. “You offered more than a hand there, friend.”

“Methinks it was of thine initiation.”

“Fair enough.” His laughter dissipates on the other’s nose. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Of course not. ‘Tis why I offered to help you.”

“Ugh. A jester, etcetera.” The former rogue steals a peck at his lips if only to prove his remaining talent. “I’ll admit, this is not how I foresaw my evening going. At the very least, not with you.”

“Nor I. I didst naught bethink of myself to be thy… type. In exchangeth as well, for that matter.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had a type in years, mind you.” 

“Alloweth me to prove mineself to thee, then. Mayhaps fashion a new type of thy liking.”

“Yes.”

Thancred’s eyes finally tear themselves from Urianger’s, resting on the clock. Its pace helps slow the impatient beating of the heart. It is a reminder of how heavy the lids of their starry eyes feel. His fingers curl around Urianger’s hand, bringing it in tow with a grunt as he stands, his free one swinging the much emptier sack over his shoulder. 

It feels good, he thinks, to know that he won’t be carrying anything on his shoulders alone anymore. To be in their three’s crowd — yes, his beloved crowds. To feel like he has someone to rely on, rather than making it for himself. And to learn more about this side of Urianger he’s only peeked at, the Urianger that will dedicate his whole self to him. To Ryne. 

Surely enough, he and Urianger support each other, arms behind each other’s backs, as they amble towards the bedroom door.

“Now, when you say you’ll be ever present…”

“I shall joineth thee in bed, but I hath every intention of sleeping.”

“This may surprise you, but that’s a relief.”

“Ah… We truly hath grown.”


End file.
